Her eyes widened. “Your mother?” she said. “Your father? Your brother and sister? Surely—”
“No.” He shrugged out of his tight-fitting coat and opened the buttons of his waistcoat. “I was born heir to my present title. I was born with an earl’s title, Jane. My family all used it until I became Tresham at the age of seventeen. You really are the first to call me by my given name.”
He had suggested it. He had never done so with his other mistresses. They had called him by his title, just like everyone else. He remembered now being shaken to hear his name on Jane’s lips a week ago. He had not expected it to bring such a feeling of—of intimacy. He had not realized how he had longed for such intimacy. Just that. Someone calling him by name.
He tossed his waistcoat aside and untied the knot of his neckcloth. She was watching him, her hands clasped at her waist, cloaked in gold.
“Jocelyn,” she said softly. “Everyone should know what it is like to be called by name. By the name of the unique person one is at heart. Do you want me to undress too?”
“Not yet.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and pulled off his Hessian boots. He kept his pantaloons on for the time being.
“You are very beautiful,” she surprised him by saying, her eyes on his naked torso. Trust Jane to make such a remark! “I suppose I have offended you by using that particular word. It is not masculine enough, I daresay. But you are not handsome. Not in any conventional sense. Your features are too harsh and angular, your coloring too dark. You are only beautiful.”
An experienced courtesan could not have aroused him so deftly even with the most cunningly erotic words.
“Now what have you left me to say about you?” he asked, stepping forward and touching her at last. He framed her face with his hands, sliding his fingers into the warm silk of her hair. “You are not pretty, Jane. You must know that. Prettiness is ephemeral. It passes in a season. You will be beautiful when you are thirty, when you are fifty, when you are eighty. At twenty you are dazzling, breathtaking. And you are mine.” He dipped his head and touched his parted lips to hers, tasting her with his tongue before withdrawing a couple of inches.
“Yes, Jocelyn.” Her teeth bit into her soft, moist lower lip. “For now I am yours. According to our contract.”
“That damned thing.” He chuckled softly. “I want you to want me, Jane. Tell me it is not just the money or this house or the obligation that wretched piece of paper has put you under. Tell me you want me.Me—Jocelyn. Or tell me truthfully that you do not and I will leave you to the enjoyment of your home and salary for the next five years. I will not bed you unless you want me.”
He had never particularly cared before. All conceit aside, he knew he was not the sort of man who repelled women who earned their living in bed. And it had always been a matter of pride with him to give pleasure where he took it. But he had never cared whether a woman wantedhimor just the wealthy, rakish aristocrat with the dangerous reputation. In fact, if he had thought about it, he probably would have decided that he did not want any woman close enough to desirehim.
He had never before been Jocelyn to anyone. Not to anyone in his family. Not to any woman. Not even to his closest friends. He would rather turn and leave now and never return than let Jane lie on her back on that bed simply because she felt obliged to. It was a somewhat alarming realization.
“I want you, Jocelyn,” she whispered.
There was no doubt she meant it. Her blue eyes were focused fully on his. She was speaking the simple truth.
And then she leaned forward, letting every part of her body rest lightly against him. She set her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. It was a gesture of sweet surrender.
All the sweeter because it seemed uncharacteristic of Jane. He knew her well enough to realize it was something she would never do merely because surrender was expected of her.
He felt strangely gifted.
He felt curiously wanted. In a way he had never felt in his life before.
“Jane,” he said, his face in the silk of her hair. “Jane, I need to be inside your body. Insideyou. Let me in.”
“Yes.” She tipped back her head and gazed into his eyes. “Yes, I will, Jocelyn. But you must show me how. I am not sure I know.”
Ah. Jane to the end. She spoke in her cool, practical voice—which he suddenly realized was a mask for nervousness.
“It will be my pleasure,” he told her, his mouth against hers as his fingers tackled the buttons down the back of her dress.
14
HE WAS NOT NERVOUS.
Oh, yes, she was.
She was nervous in the sense that she did not know quite what to do and was afraid of being gauche.
But she was not afraid. Or in any way horrified at what she was doing. Or ashamed. And she had spoken no lie. She wanted him. She desperately desired him. And hewasbeautiful—all solid, hard muscle with broad shoulders and chest, narrow waist and hips, long legs. He was warm and smelled of some musky cologne.
He was Jocelyn, and only she had ever spoken the intimacy of his name. She knew all about the importance of names. Only her parents had ever called her by her middle name, herrealname, the one that seemed somehow to encompass her true identity. Her parents and now Jocelyn. She had tried to stop him from calling her Jane, but he had done so regardless.
And so in some inexpressible way they knew each other intimately even before the physical knowing, which was just beginning. He was unclothing her. Her nakedness did not embarrass her. She saw herself through the look in his dark eyes and knew that she was beautiful and desirable.
